Children of the Night
by Inity
Summary: Not only Zion messengers are looking for potentials. Sometimes it's important - who comes for you first. What choice would you make?... [Agents-centered story that takes place in St.Petersburg, Russia...]


  
[ Children Of The Night ]  
  
(c) Tatiana Matveeva aka Inity Intel Inside  
based on "The Matrix" concept by Larry & Andy Wachowski  
  
  
Original in russian:  
http://inity.complife.net/ai/pages/children-ru.html  
  
  
  
The distribution of this text is forbidden  
as an act discreditating the Matrix ways.  
- Russian part Of the Matrix, agents  
  
The distribution of this text is forbidden  
as an act discreditating the Rebellion ways.  
- Russian part Of the Matrix, Zion  
  
  
  
to: Konstantin (Agent Jack)  
  
  
Our words, they are insolent  
But we're convicted to a death;  
We have come way too early,  
Ðrecursors îf the Spring too slow.  
  
  
  
  
D. Merezhkovsky.  
  
  
[ Children Of The Night ]  
  
  
  
  
  
I go upstairs and he runs hurrily towards me, a tall dark-haired young  
man wearing glasses absently mumbling something and keeping a file with  
notes in his hands.  
  
The stairway is wide, but he hardly looks ahead. Just one more inch  
and we could just pass near each other...  
  
  
A folder fling out from my hands, a maelstrom of white pages swirls   
in the stairway opening. Several sheets fly down to a ground  
floor, the rest lands right here on steps, for everyone to leave  
a footprint of their boots on these white sheets: all philosophy students   
hurrying to second floor, all history students hurrying to a first one,   
and all applied math students running down to a ground one.  
  
I watch all this nonchalantly, not knowing what will suit here better -   
smile or perplexity. I crouch down and begin to collect the sheets.  
  
- I'm sorry, - he says to me. He crouches near me and starts to help me   
stacking the pages. - I'm Michael. Philosophy faculty, second term.   
Well, almost a third one. Will be, if I'll defend my termwork   
successfully, - his eyes point to his file.  
I nod to a scattered sheets in reply.   
- Similar case.  
I pick up a sheet, wondering what is it. It's a title page of my   
termwork. There is my name there, as well as my group and term number...  
I pensively show this page to him in a response.  
- "The Image of the Universe in Medieval European Culture"... - he   
reads word by word. - It's great... You're from History faculty, aren't you?  
- Yes, I am.  
We walk downstairs to a ground floor, collecting all scattered pages   
by the way. He weights a thick stack on his hand:  
- You've much work done...  
- I tried my best...  
- But how do you think to sort all these sheets? There are no page numbers   
here...  
  
I turn a sheet in my hands, then another one...  
  
- Really... I forgot.  
- "Insert - Page numbers", - he tells me touching his glasses. - Of   
course, if you use Word.  
I decide not to elaborate on this.  
- I constantly forget where to find this. I'll have to write them by   
hand...  
There is a real sympathy in his voice:  
- I'm so sorry. I was clumsy like a bear... Let's go find a table there   
in the cafe. We'll get your dissertation complete in no time. Everything  
will be alright.  
  
Everything will be alright. It even cannot be better...  
I nod and follow him.  
  
We sit in a corner, and Michael starts to sort pages with concentration.  
I help him as I can. The work advances slowly, but finally it's almost   
done - and we both look satisfied.   
- Well, here you are. - Michael winks handing me the folder. - Some coffee?  
Maybe tea or something else?  
- Just a coffee.  
  
He leaves for a coffee and I watch him. Here he is, queued up right   
behind the merry company of students-medics terrifying people around   
with their coarse jokes. They buy potato patties, a whole lot of them,   
and the barmaid slowly removes the price label from the stand. Michael   
is back here with coffee, bringing a sandwich for himself.  
  
- And by the way, as to your work, - he says suddently. - While I was  
sorting the pages, I notice some quotation... from Thomas Aquinas...  
- There is not very much from him there, only in the very end...  
- It was quoted by Merezhkovsky... There, in his book....  
I listen with interest, but Michael has no chance to tell me what he   
wanted to. A slender figure appears at the entrance - a black-haired   
athletic-looking girl with very determined face. She approaches our   
table with her look filled with anger, jealousy and her offended dignity.  
I don't pay attention to detais of their quarrel. Michael stands up and  
they are arguing some time until she flushes and goes away banging the   
door angrily.  
At last my new acquaintance sits back down and sips from his cup again.  
- Marinka is so jealous, - he explains. - Just when she notices me   
speaking with any girl - and that's all, we'll have at least a week of  
arguing and quarreling. It seems like she is unable to admit that I can   
just interact with many different people! To admit that I can speak with   
a girl not about something indecent... but just ask about a quote from  
Thomas Aquinas... what a stupid jealousy.  
- People like her should learn to control their emotions, - I say.  
He agrees readily:  
- There would be no harm in this for Marinka... But if she is stubborn   
in something it's rather hard to prove her the opposite. Well, there is  
no sense to call her today, she would not even answer the phone.  
  
- Don't take it too seriously, - I touch his shoulder. - Everything   
will be alright.  
  
And I really think so. Everything is going on quite fine.  
  
The silence lasts too long... that's bad. I need to say something...  
  
I'm choosing the variant thoughtfully. NLP, psychology, dianetics,   
Young or Bern theories, psychoanalytics... they are readily rolling   
in my mind... but they're nonsense. This knowledge have no use here...   
it smells falsity... and I just want to interact with him!  
  
- You're going by subway?  
  
A flash of half-forgotten memories - like a dawn coming upon me, which  
makes me happy. Of course! By subway... the University Embankment, Neva,  
the Palace Bridge, a small garden left to a right hand side, and the   
Admiralty, a wide mouth of the Nevsky Prospekt, the main city artery...  
the way so famiiar to all generations of St.Petersburg's students.  
  
- Sure, by subway!  
- The weather is fine... we can just go afoot. Would you?  
  
And we grab our files with termworks and notes, leaving the cafe in the  
History faculty building... it's a History faculty after all, although   
there are both Philosophy, History and several departments of Math also   
sharing this very roof, and there is even a couple of labs there,   
where medics and biologists are stuck with their microscopes and   
centrifuges...  
  
The memories... what a strange, intricate cycle, they are merging with   
me... remove them.  
  
I should be calm. There is no need for so many emotions... What was the  
Merezhkovsky's book Michael have noted?  
  
- I know only Merezhkovsky's poetry, - I say. - I particulary like this   
one...  
  
I trudge along the slippy path  
With reddish clay and feeble moss;  
The Evening running down above  
With all its warm, sweet-smelling breath...  
  
A beautifil verse... I'm sorry I don't remember it to the end. Or do I   
do it already?  
  
Merezhkovsky was a Russian poet, philosopher and writer belonged to a   
symbolists movement. His every work is filled with hyperlinks, hints and  
hidden symbols...  
  
- Poetry? Yes, I like his poetry too. What would you say on this?  
  
We stand on the middle of the bridge and Michael says with eyes closed:  
  
Fixing ou eyes towards the  
Sky from East which is turning pale,  
Children of Sorrow, children of Night  
We wait for our prophet to come.  
We are feeling the unknown  
And with hope in our hearts,  
Dying, we're sad about  
Worlds which were never born...  
  
  
I never heard this verse before...   
I like it.  
"Children of the Night"?  
I should save it to my memory.  
  
We approach the Nevsky, entering the noisy and diverse river... people  
hurry somewhere, cars rush near us... The evening sun lights the huge  
poster hanging on the front wall of "Barricade" theater - it's situated  
very favourably, everyone can see it even from a far distance...  
  
  
THE MATRIX  
  
  
These faces of Morpheus, Neo and Trinity are so vastly printed on many   
posters, banners, disc and tape covers, that I look at them indifferently  
for a long time for now. They look at me and I look at them... beside them.  
Why should I think of them? I should think of something what it right now   
and here...  
  
Michael slows his step.   
- Wait... do you like "The Matrix"?  
  
At first I even don't understand his question and stare at him in   
amazement. He nods towards the poster.  
- Yes, - I respond carefully, keeping my smile inside me. - I like   
the Matrix...  
  
- I watched it several times already, albeit on a tape... - he rummages   
in his pocket, taking something out. - Here is it... Marinka already   
took her offence anyway, I won't be able even to try to speak with   
her... - he shows me a couple of crumpled movie tickets on his palm.   
- It will be a pity if these tickets will be wasted... aren't you hurrying   
anywhere?  
  
Two tickets to a "Matrix" with Dolby Surround is an inexcusable luxury for  
a man with only allowance as his primary money income... of course, it will  
be a pity if they'll get wasted... Irrational... and rationality is the  
highest consideration. It worth seeing? I listen to my inner voice, but  
it keeps silence and this means it will be my own decision.  
- Surely, let's go see it...  
- ... but don't tell Marinka about it, she'll be offended even more, - we  
say this simultaneously and we smile.  
  
He lets me inside the movie hall first and we sit. I put the folder with   
notes and termwork to my knees carefully. The lights go out and I see  
again these incredibly familiar titles, a code lines flowing down slowly  
like tears...  
- I should like to know how these lines are read, - Michael says either to   
me or aside.  
- Nothing special there, - I respond without turning to him. - Standard  
disclaimers... "The distribution of this movie is approved as an act   
contributing to the Matrix ways. The distribution of this movie is   
approved as an act contributing to the Rebellion ways"...  
I hear him giggling, putting his hand over his mouth.  
- Great... It's from "Nocturnal Patrol"? I haven't read "Duirnal"   
one still...  
- I have it as a file.  
- Just a fragment?  
- No, the whole one...  
  
Each book is a file. Each book is essentially just a data pack, a set  
of information, the difference is only in it's form of representation...  
  
Someone hisses from behind. We silence.  
  
There are two hours and a half ahead... What a sad irony, what a grin of  
coincidences? Why is it this very movie in this very time?  
  
...  
  
The darkness is coming down already, and Nevsky Prospekt accepts us into  
itself and embraces us with warm May evening.  
- Going by subway? One won't dive underground right now...  
- Yes. Let's go afoot? To the "Rebellion Square"...  
- Okay...  
  
He takes my folder away as we walk along.  
  
  
- Have you noticed many place names in our city are somewhat rebellious? - I   
sligtly smile leaning my head. - "Barricade", "Rebellion Square"...   
- I should think so. It's Petersburg-Petrograd-Leningrad... The cradle of  
revolition after all... - a smile lighten his face but he instantly becomes  
pensive again.  
- What are you thinking about? - I ask him. - About movie?  
- Well, no... back there, in movie hall, I was thinking why do you never   
take off your sunglasses?  
  
What could be the best answer for such a question?  
  
- Is it better? - I ask taking off shades, screwing up my eyes and   
shaking my head, scattering my hair over shoulders.  
Michael peers into my eyes for a short time...  
- That's better... - he nods in contentment and puts the folder to his   
other hand. - You know, it's fun. Look, in that movie characters do wear  
sunglasses even in a total darkness... even on their ship, despite there   
is no sun there.  
- That's right, there is no sun there... well, it's there yet, somewhere  
above the clouds... maybe. If humans haven't already sold it by pieces...  
  
  
He understands what do I mean - I like to speak giving away hints,   
provoking the play of associations to my interlocutor, guiding him  
to new and unexpected thought combinations, to a new situation of  
logical links and interconnections... He accepts my game. And we begin   
to speak. I do guide the conversation, phrase by phrase, albeit Michael  
thinks gladly he does this... I smile while predicting possible answers   
and deciding which quote or hidden hyperlink will suit the moment better,   
which thread of invisible links will take us to the goal...  
  
- The movie is good... Somebody think it's just a primitive Hollywood   
action movie with computer SFX... and girls rarely like it. - Michael  
says looking back to "Barricade". Neo from the poster is squinting at   
us with hostility. - Marinka doesn't like it much too... but I do feel   
something in it.  
  
- You feel that all shown there may turn out to be the truth?  
He looks scared a bit.  
  
- No... Quite unlikely...  
- But if it nonetheless should be?  
  
- Then... such a reality... hmm, it seems like it is no worse than any   
other. I thought sometimes that we all are possibly victims of some   
extraterrestrial experiment, or maybe just non-playing characters on some  
immense game server... it may be possible too. The problem with all this is   
that one cannot prove it for sure... just to see oneself?  
  
- And you're sure you would not twitch a finger at your temple if somebody   
approach you on the street with a couple of pills? - I make merry over  
him. - Here you are, by the way.  
  
I push blue and red pills of "Duovit" out from the package to my palm.  
- Would you?  
- What is it? - a bewildered smile.  
- Just vitamines... hm, confess you just wished to believe I would offer  
you something weird? "Follow the white rabbit" and stuff?  
- I don't know. - he takes pills from my palm. - Blue or red one?  
- "Both", according to user's manual, - I laugh.  
  
- Yeah, right, so is it, just when you're trying to believe, oops, and   
they got you shafted again... you always wish for something bigger, and every  
time you find yourself still in this boring world.  
  
- It's not so boring... of course, maybe it's not similar to the one   
shown in movies. There is little chance you'll notice someone jumping  
from roof to roof, and if you hear the shooting you more likely would  
keep that block aside from your way, not willing to check if they're   
saving one more Morpheus there, or is it just a mafia solving its   
problems... And if you'll see the man with cell phone on his belt heading  
to a pay-phone booth, you'll hardly consider this amazing, especially here,   
in our Russia. But should it mean the world is boring? No way. Well... What   
is interesting for you?...  
  
Russian philosophers of the early XX century and modern fiction.   
Richard Bach, Lukianenko and Castaneda... Hansen and ERA, Tolkien and   
Umberto Eco... what a diversed range one's interests could cover! I like   
to talk about something I'm attracted to, I don't need to evoke an  
artificial interest inside me this way. I don't have to speak with   
inevitable smile about dull Assyrians which are making me depressed,   
or about ancient Indians, like I had to do last time. Or maybe the time   
before it? You have to pay for an art of being pleasant in conversation   
with headaches, throwing away the unneeded knowledge you have to fill   
yourself with. This is not the case now. We just talk. Just have our   
discussion going. People around look at us with smile, maybe thinking   
we're a nice couple... although we're even not holding each other's hands,   
and there is a name "Marina" inscribed deep inside Michael's soul somewhere,   
and deep inside my own soul there is... no, I won't think about it.   
Not now. Later. It's much better just to look again at the evening city   
and to think about its beauty...  
  
We go down to subway and walk from "Rebellion Square" to "Mayakovskaya",   
where the passing trains are hidden behind the wall and only steely doors  
are sliding apart and meet again with rumbling...  
  
I think we should meet with Michael again some day... maybe even not once.  
I already know his phone number, but I take the piece of paper where it  
is hurrily written. And rigth when I put that paper to my pocket, I sense   
a haunting call... sudden as usual, and as usual at the moment I expect   
it least.  
  
- I have to go, right now... - I won't Michael to see my face changing.  
- May I see you off? - he tries to hold my hand.  
- To where I'm going to?   
Not now, Michael... by no way now. There I'm going to...  
- Maybe, but not this time. Later...  
  
I jump between the shutting doors... and the air vortex brushes off the  
train rushing by.  
  
  
  
II  
  
  
The black void is squeezing me like a grip. Several seconds are protracting  
into eternity... Why, why is it right now? How can I say "no" when it is   
a part of my existense too? Just like this pain is.  
  
  
The incoming information pack appears to me bulky and awkward. I wrinkle   
intrinictically while accepting it... and drop into the world just at once.  
  
The monument of the Leader of World Revolution grins a sullen smile   
at me from above. Analysing location... but wait, I recognize the place  
already. I always happen to be here on the sunset. The dark outline of   
small temple is a bit away... usually there are few people here, with   
the moments when people just arrived to Warshawsky train station are   
flowing like a thin stream to the nearest subway being the only exceptions...  
  
Some shooting is heard not far off - a little old woman crosses herself   
while passing by.  
  
- Don't go there, my daughter... bandits there, hear the shooting...   
oh, Lord - she says to me. But I start and run beside her around the   
street corner... I see my target right there - a lonely pay phone booth,   
the one accepting coins, not cards, with the phone equipped with   
dialing disk, not buttons.  
  
The phone begins to ring. Every time I restrain my desire to pick the handset  
up and see what would happen. But the phone rings not for me... I can see   
already the one it rings for. The lad appears somewhere from the lane, he is  
running unsteadily, puffing and panting, and his whole essence is now  
concentrated to his last hope, to this phone call.  
  
Just a single phone call...  
  
- Not too fast, - I say.  
  
It's enough to throw him into confusion. He stands still right for those  
seconds required for a second Agent's bullet to reach him.   
So simple... so sadly.  
  
  
My friend (I don't know how to call him. Collegue? Fellow? Nobody can   
express it with words on usual human relationships) approaches me. We don't   
need any greetings.  
  
- One rebel managed to escape, - he says to me, and I understand it's   
a pity. - Maybe there is another entry point not far away from here.  
I look to the Obvodniy Canal, reckoning up the city map.   
- I will be here on the next mission. Leave me this information. I'll look   
for this too.  
- His name is Anatoly. He's one of operators on the ship and rarely visits  
the Matrix, but if he does, his goal is always a destruction...  
- I'll browse through it, - I interrupt him and feel a small packet of data  
crawling in the labyrinth of my code looking for a place for it.  
  
We both look to the body laid at our feet. The wind is stirring his   
fair dishevelled forelock, his unseeing eyes still look to the sky open   
wide with despair and perplexity kept inside them.  
  
- He's just fifteen or so, - I say. - They in Zion are mad. They would   
give the arms to children soon.  
- Children are first who are longing for a battle, - my friend replies.  
- They are just following adults. Those who never was in the Matrix   
themselves. Those who would just sit in their bunker and spit orders,   
those not aware of life value concept.  
- This is not quite correct, - he shakes his head. - Zion is longing for  
the newcomers, for new potentials for being unplugged. We know they plan   
to bring the whole bunch of children and teens to Oracle for testing   
really soon.  
- Children are easy to influence, - I respond. - We need only the deliberate   
choice.  
- I was just seventeen, - my friend turns away. I don't respond. It's his   
own only. I won't touch archives of his old memories in his home directory   
even if he would offer me that.  
  
He touches his earpiece - I understand his gesture too well.   
- Again... They never will be satisfied, - he says to me apologetically   
a bit. - I envy you in some way, Level 14. Albeit you're hard to understand...   
- Sometimes it's hard, - I don't argue. - See you...  
Who knows when we'll see each other again?.. I don't know...  
  
I listen to silence. I go away feeling the warm wind motions around.  
  
  
  
III  
  
  
  
An Internet-cafe, "Tetris". It's a portal too. A place where reality and  
virtuality joins together, a blade edge they must walk on, those whose souls  
we should test... I have some unclear past remembrances of this cafe. They  
seem to be important and not very pleasant in the same time... I won't dig  
up archives now. That past does not matter already...  
  
  
The one being my current mission goal haven't arrived yet.   
I look around for some time.  
  
A couple of girls stuck to the screen - the mIRC window is opened there,   
and new lines from some chat channel are flooding it rapidly, twitching   
slightly.  
A guy intently downloading scientific articles.  
A carefully dressed businessman browsing through the newscast...  
  
  
I love to see how faces of people change while they're working with a  
computer.  
  
There is another lad, he shakes his head and starts banging his keyboard   
again sipping his coffee nervously. I look at him closely. He's looking   
for something, sending his questions to the electronic oracle of search   
engine again and again. But it does not favour him with answers very   
much - he just clicks one more link impetuously, but browser loiters for   
a while and spits out an "Error 404". More, more links to go...   
  
I feel for him.   
  
What a slow and irrational way of information retrieval...   
I used to use the same way once.   
  
To know what the "Server not responding" message means, to watch the dark   
modem lights pushing the "Reconnect" button furiously... To know the  
incredibly joyful feeling comes when you find the sought-for at last...  
To suffer when you can't connect out...   
  
Everything is gone.  
  
Any information of the world... an entire network. Everything I would ever   
like to get... the feeling of being connected permanently... sometimes I   
wonder is it really this small I was longing for? But those who had come   
to me did know what to offer...  
  
Now I do offer too.  
  
I do search and I do offer. Not to anyone - only to those who approached the   
border, those feeling the instabilities and internal order of this world,   
those searching for answers, those not seeing a place for them in this   
reality, those hoping to meet a conductor, the one to lead them into   
labyrinths of new universes they're dreaming of while diving into the   
computer reality... Those who are looking for an answers in works of ancient   
philosophers, in oriental doctrines and european mystics, those remaining   
unable of being understood by others but still keeping to look insistently   
for their way...  
  
Envoys from Zion come to such a people.  
Or we do.  
The question is just who gets to them first...  
  
  
I have to do one more thing...  
  
I pick up a telephone handset and dial a number. Several rings are heard, and   
here is it, Michael's voice.  
- Hi! I thought you would not call me...  
- I promised to - and I do. Guess where I am now? "Tetris" cafe...  
- Hey! I live right next to it! May I come?! - he asks happily.  
- Not now, I have some business here... Let's meet an hour and a half   
later... ok?  
- Won't it be too late?  
- No, quite the time... well, I'll wait for you. The cafe would be closed   
already, but I'll be waiting right near...  
  
I drop the line, quite satisfied with the conversation.  
And here he is, the one I came to "Tetris" today for...  
His name is Oleg, and he doesn't look much older than 16, though he ought   
to be. Anyway, I feel something unpleasant looking at him. It makes me   
remember the rebel lad killed last evening.  
I'm not quite sure we should call those like Oleg to our side - do we really   
have to do it?  
  
But what if we won't?  
Those from Zion would come.  
  
They would teach to see people as possible enemies. Moreover, as real   
enemies. To forget everything that was here, in this world of humans, in   
the world we are guarding. They would teach to wield weapons, would imprint  
martial art lessons into their mind.   
They would put them under the banners of Rebellion. Not giving them a chance   
to taste the usual joy of life, they would feed them with raw proteines   
blent with big words and throw them into the Matrix...  
For them to find their death there. And maybe an Agent whose bullet will  
break their lost life off, will be the only one to feel really sorry for   
them...  
  
And this would be the real death. It may come only once...  
I have dozens of deaths and hundreds of births behind me, it's unlikely one  
can find a suitable words to express this... But maybe it's still better   
than to die like Zion strangers do? They cannot have any backups...  
  
  
I talk with Oleg... not for very long time.  
He was noticed long ago, we looked at him carefully... several "Tetris"   
employees work for us, they tell us about potential candidates...  
We interacted with him then, quite long - in chat channels, via e-mail...  
ensuring in some way he is ready for one of us to come.  
  
I speak his tongue, the one he understands well. The things I tell him   
right now, I'm afraid, seem like an exciting adventure, a fiction movie  
came to life for him. I feel pity of him.   
I think how strange it could be that several minutes later I will talk   
with one of us, not with this merry tousled boy - and he will be filled  
with the same coldness and incurable sadness, the inevitable companions   
to the knowledge...  
  
He glances at the screen with a stage of "Mortal Kombat" frozen in   
pause mode. The decision he's obligued to make seems like a fairy tale   
for him, he still doesn't feel its devastating reality, the deadly fight  
on the border for him is still no more fearsome than adventures of  
some painted characters saving the world on the computer screen...  
If he could only know how serious is it.  
  
- Ok, right, I really trust you and everything you just told me, but   
what I have to do now?  
- You should just wish... just make your choice. Definitely. With your   
soul open wide. A fraction of a second would be enough. Many things in  
our world depend on beliefs. It will be all right if you believe.  
  
At least the first jolt, the first, still unclear wish makes sense...  
Just agree - and you're opening the door already, no, you're already on   
the other side. And the knowledge will come later. They will give you   
everything you need, they will teach you to believe...  
  
- I cannot make it through. - he looks at me either offended or   
distrusted. - Maybe I should swallow some pill?  
- No, leave pills for rebels. You really need one?  
  
I know you already felt it... the border between real and virtual, when   
the matter converts into thought... I won't be here now if you didn't...  
  
I take the spoon from a cup of cold coffee.  
  
- Look here, it's just like in the movie, - I give him a wink. - Try to  
bend this spoon. Because there IS the one.  
  
No hands. With your thought only... in the very moment your mind will tear   
off from your body, and the Matrix's virtuality will become your only   
reality... you will understand this.  
  
And I feel it - a slightest change, a movement of code... I know this   
moment, know how it happens. It's different a bit, but as a whole...   
it's so similar every time. And every time I see it, I feel some strange   
nostalgia...  
  
I hold Oleg's hand, knowing well it sometimes may be painless, but   
sometimes rather painful when a body already disconnected from   
life support hardware still has time to send its last scream of agony to   
a mind... just a first pain of many to come later...  
  
I see the green lines being interlaced and rearranged, the symbols and   
digits flashing while in the Matrix the mind is being copied and   
modified on the fly. A blinding dot, a tiny program was just implanted   
into it - and this dot have so many things to hold within. It defines   
meanings and goals for your existence, it's your inner voice and   
thought that becomes yours, it's a key and a way to rebuild your   
personality, and this rebuilding is now in progress... maybe too fast,   
too abruptly. Whole routines and code chains are recombine, filling   
obediently the limits reserved for them... an information, a swamping   
flood of it - it's a required knowledge, the one to obtain a place for   
yourself in *this* world when you have yourself lost...  
  
He's staggering a bit - I note his rignt hand twitches innaturally for a   
last time, it's a common thing when the control program integration is   
being tested. It will pass soon... that's all.  
Decision is a key... and the transition doesn't take long. And there's   
no way back...  
I won't catch his glance filled with understanding and sadness.  
I help him to wear shades and to attach an earpiece - just a symbol...  
almost a ritual, maybe.   
  
And when I got left alone I just stand there and wait...  
  
I wait... for a response nobody can express in words, just one signal,   
just a single byte that would tell me everything is done right.  
  
It arrives... and I have no doubts anymore.  
  
  
  
IV  
  
  
I listen to leaves' rustle, look high into the sky slowly covering   
with gray clouds. The wind was warm, but it becomes colder and colder;   
it seems like there will be a rain. I should check up a weather schedule  
for this evening...  
  
I wait for Michael to arrive, the one I appointed the meeting with. But by  
no means for the man just appeared in front of me, although his arrival happens   
to be a curious coincidence. It's a pleasure to see a Zion envoy not pointing  
a gun toward you at once. A rare occasion. It seems like Anatoly wants to   
talk with me himself...  
  
He lingers not knowing how to start. Then he shouts something...  
Huh! It's a surprise.  
  
- I'm looking for my brother.  
- And you decided to ask us for help, didn't you? This can be amusing.   
But we're not an inquiry office, mister Anatoly...  
- He had to be right here, in the cafe, about a half-hour ago.  
- I'm afraid watching over him is not a part of my duties, - I reply   
evasively, trying insistently to analyse all information I have at   
the same time... to understand what exactly does he want... but everything   
becomes just clear. He helps me with it.  
- My brother's name is Oleg...  
  
- Is he your brother of your own blood? - I respond with a question.   
- Were you born with one mother in Zion? Or were you grown inside   
the Matrix born in fetus fields? Why do you keep silence?  
- He is... my brother. He is more close to me than anybody else.  
- It's just a memories implanted by the Matrix according to your own  
concepts.  
- He is my brother, - Anatoly repeats obstinately.  
- And you're, no doubt, sorry that he's now lost for Zion, - I say to him.  
  
- He's lost... for... Zion... - he repeats this word by word... - What   
are _you_ talking about?  
  
- You wanted to unplug him and take him to the ship - it's a fact.   
I don't think you would negate it. But Oleg had his own opinion on this   
matter.  
  
- What can you... What can you understand?  
Anger mixes with desperation on his face.  
  
- Yes, he attracted our attention onboard there... Yes, he had...   
an aptitude... Yes, I had to have to guide him to the Oracle with others   
several days later, -   
  
It seems like he's ready to tell me many things, if not everything at all -   
I listen closely, anything told may prove to be a valuable information   
to us...  
  
- I asked all those priestesses so many... so many times! I begged on my   
knees... not beleiving already... not beleiving I am able to persuade those  
heartless... to let me to the Oracle... I begged, begged her to tell my  
brother have no aptitude at all... To tell he would not be useful for   
Zion... Lord, I just wanted him to live. Just to live his own life.   
Not cursing himself for that foolishness like I do, not to be tortured with  
a question was it worth for him to choose a blue pill or not... though  
children are usually not being asked at all...  
  
He silences for some time.  
  
- I told her I will do anything she want if she will help me. "Do you want   
his mind to remain chained?" - she asked me. And one of her priestesses   
added: "Do you want your brother to remain just a battery for the   
Matrix?"... but how could I answer her after I did see the look our   
captain was watching my brother on the screen with?... I notice his arms   
clenching in fists.  
- There are no women on our ship...  
  
I could possibly feel a disgust, I could become indignant, raise my hands  
to the sky and burst out with accusatory-sympathetical speech... a human   
could do all this. I just keep silence. I'm curious to know how Oracle had  
answered him... I heard of her. The name of Oracle of Saint-Petersburg is  
Valentina, and she lives in a tiny apartment near the Mariinskiy Theater...  
We know that. The Matrix is aware of every Oracle. And it always keeps  
neutrality with them...  
  
He'll tell it now. His soul is overflowed with too many things - he needs  
someone to share them with.  
  
- She told me that my worries are shallow... and I should not worry...   
gosh, I just hadn't hit her right there on the kitchen forcing her to   
give me a promice... she said I don't understand anything, just like she   
always does... then she yielded at last... and it was her prediction...  
that Oleg will not be suitable for Zion...  
  
she should tell he has no aptitude, and he should not be unplugged...  
  
- The last thing you had invented yourself, - I smile. - You had imagined   
the sequence of actions, but it was not the most optimal one. Howewer, your  
Oracle was right. Oleg is not suitable for Zion anymore. You may relay her   
that she may add one more fulfulled prediction to her account.  
  
My words, their fine fidelity, force him into an anger... along with   
bringing him the awareness of the things happened.  
  
It's strange he didn't know that already... maybe he did, but he was not   
agreed with a rather simple fact - a man who did search and did touch the   
border... he could not return to his former everyday life. And it's not   
a requirement for him to join the Rebellion.  
  
- He was not suitable for Zion... but you got him!  
  
- Your brother made his choice himself. Maybe you deny his right to decide?  
  
This cools him down a bit.  
  
- May I see him?  
- I have no information on his current location now. And I doubt it's   
rational to request it, - I reply coldly. - Maybe you'll meet one day.  
Howewer, I cannot assure you that you will recognize each other.   
Personality changes were quite deep...  
- We'll meet... I'll recognize... what have you done, bastards?! - he almost   
shouts. - You gonna tell me I will kill my own brother?  
- The word "kill" is unsuitable here - all information on him is already   
built into the Matrix, - I understand that this hardly can calm. It's   
impossible to understand it not feeling it yourself... - A mind can perfectly   
live without a body in a form of program, but your bodies could not live   
without a mind...  
  
- I cannot live with it, - he sighs broken-hearted.  
Only human...  
  
- You know the fact that Oleg was your brother is just remembrances given  
to you by the Matrix, don't you? You teach that everything isn't real. That   
"The Matrix cannot tell you who you are". But this world of dreams and   
memories is too valuable for you... You're not suitable for Zion yourself,   
Anatoly.  
  
- Stop it, - he responds.  
But I see a spark of doubt in his eyes.  
  
- We can give you new memories, - I say.  
  
My voice becomes alien. It's by no means the things I would like to tell,  
but... what a growing feeling that everything I do or everything I tell is   
not belong to me yet... it was only a feeling of accordance and harmony   
before. Now I feel my thougts are split - and this "doublethink" (as it   
was called in one novel... a quite good novel... with built-in   
"Approved for distribution..." signature) - this doublethink is leading  
to a perfomance decrease. But I have no chance to carry out optimisation   
procedures now.  
  
- A new memories... a new life. A family, parents, brother, love... just   
a life, a simple life, any one you would like. And you will never see an  
envoy with a couple of pills at your doorstep. We can warrant you that   
for sure...  
  
He steps towards me - makes a tiny step, not knowing to himself yet what   
does he want...  
  
- Your crew is watching us from the ship, - I screw up my eyes. - I bet   
they're glad to see this.  
  
- Everybody sleep onboard, - Anatoly shakes his head. - I come alone. - I   
notice him trying to squint at the phone booth not far away from us.   
- I had set up a timer...  
  
- A timer fails occasionally, - I tell him.  
  
He glances at his watch.  
  
Time is always on our side... but now it seems like we are really   
short on it.  
  
- A new life, a new memories,  
// - why so fast?  
- we can offer you...  
// - No, these are not a words I wanted to tell...  
- just in exchange to some information...  
// - no, no, no way, why the...  
- that you as a former ship operator...  
  
- You bitch... - he screams in answer...  
There is no more sparks of doubt, just a pure hatred.  
Anatoly... I feel pity of you...  
It was, well, quite interesting to talk to you...  
  
He draws a handgun and begins to shoot in disorder... the broken glass   
scream around, I hear the windows of nearest houses closing shut, a   
baby crying in fear... I dodge a bullet, then another. In the way I was   
taught - it's a special art, like I'm dancing... I can even sense   
some music inside it:  
  
[ I saw you dancing...   
and I'll never be the same again for sure ]  
  
  
It lasts a long moments, the time stretches and collapses around us. One  
of his bullets scratches me. It exhilarates him, a success, a feeling of  
triumph. He allows himself to relax a bit, forgetting that I still didn't  
start to shoot in response...  
I linger for inexcusably long time, but the understanding that time has   
come to have all this over already lives inside me.  
  
- I'm sorry, - I say. - You really was unsuitable for Zion. You may  
be ashamed or be proud of it, it's your own choice.  
  
I love humans. I hate to kill. In this moment, giving myself to that very  
feeling of doublethink, to that very instability, I wish to think that's  
not me, only the Matrix is guiding my hand...  
  
  
..........  
  
  
V  
  
  
  
  
A phone rings... a soft depressing sound. I pick the handset up slowly  
and put it back carefully into its place.  
I hear someone approaching me - a steps.  
I turn around.  
  
Michael is looking at me - particularly concerned and sorrowful in some way.  
Then he glances at the Anatoly's motionless body.  
  
- What if he had you killed? - he raises his eyes again.  
- A restoration from backup, - I wrinkle a bit. - Rather unpleasant thing.   
We're set up to avoid it... if possible. I mostly succeed in that.  
- Quite similar to the movie...  
- Not very much. More prosaic...  
  
A music reaches us from one of nearest buildings - a sad one, just like   
a cloudy sky above us, and the low chiming of electronic sounds recalling  
impulses of raindrops. The music is crying... and I almost don't listen to  
the words...  
  
We are standing here  
Exposing ourselves  
  
We're being watched  
and we feel our pulse  
  
We look around  
and change our pose  
  
We start to move  
And we break the glass  
  
We step out  
And take a walk through the city....  
  
- And you're an Agent.  
I smile.  
- Yes, I am. I had chosen this side. Once... when I was still a human, -  
I say the last words very softly, but not too soft for him not to hear them.  
To hear... but my misgivings are shallow; Michael doesn't consider me as a   
program.  
- You may make your choice too, - I tell him.  
  
- Is this a reason you've come to me?  
  
A silence inside me again. It seems strange to be on my own only... when   
suddenly there's no feeling of something watching over you... every such   
mission is like recovering for some time a piece of my independence I had  
to leave behind. This feeling of freedom is dangerous, 'cause an odd strange  
thoughts are starting to come to me. Yes, Michael, I was sent to call you.  
Just like they were sent for me... but what a strange thing... I don't want  
for you to make this choice now. I won't guide you into this world I belong   
to. Do you really need this happiness?...  
  
I can offer you everything one may ever want...  
  
Everything you want. I'm just a messenger, just a mediator, all I do is   
just making wishes true and offering the worlds.  
But I don't think our life is the one you really need, the one worth to  
forget the rest of this world... I think you should be neither with us   
nor on the Zion's side. You should just live you life...  
But the Matrix don't think so.  
If it could be my will to...  
But I have none already.  
  
  
The young man stepped into the hall of mirrors  
Where he discovered a reflection of himself  
Even the greatest stars discover themselves in the looking glass  
  
Sometimes he saw his real face  
And sometimes a stranger at his place  
Even the greatest stars find their face in the looking glass  
  
....  
  
- What if you hadn't come?  
- Zion envoys would come then. Sooner or later. It's important sometimes  
who comes first...  
We always come to those living on the edge... the edge between real and   
virtual. Those wishing to break the frame of their life, to break out of   
the reality that surrounds them - also having some great high goal for  
this breakthrough.  
  
- And the goal... is it really that high?  
- "Is it worth it, Kay?" - I quote one more movie... by the way, also   
one of those "recommended" movies with "Distribution is allowed as an act   
contributing to the Matrix ways" label. - Although we have not so much time   
to think already. But this really worth it. I think so.  
  
He made up the person he wanted to be  
And changed into a new personality  
  
A rain is dripping from above. I watch absently the ripped fabric recovering  
over, feel the tiny code fragments, the pieces of a mosaic rearrange to heal  
the wound left by Anatoly's shot. I feel an intricate burning sensation   
somewhere inside there while the structure of virtual flesh is being restored   
again.  
Michael watches this too.  
  
- Everything is of equal value. You give something, you get   
something... - I tell him. - I have no home. The words "work" or   
"vacation" are meaningless for me, there are another categories... I   
shouldn't think how could I keep myself alive and well. Everything a   
human needs - food, drink, sleep... it goes away... Everything is   
directed to keep the performance high.  
  
There is also something one shouldn't speak about... anyway, how can one   
speak about it? One may only feel this, be this. How can one tell about   
a black silence, a squeezing pain when you're being recombined from pieces,   
to tell about short moments becoming an eternity, when you can speak with   
the abyss - and you have an endless treasury of knowledge open wide, all   
the knowledge gathered on the Earth by both humans and machines, a pure  
ambrosia of information, a book of world's sources...  
  
- And what do you propose me to do now? You... or the Matrix through you,   
what do you?  
- Just to make your choice. You decide yourself. I'm just a messenger.   
You do choose the world you want to belong to...  
  
  
// Radio Sender und H:orer sind wir   
(=We're radio transmitters and receivers)  
// Spielen im :Ather das Wellenklavier   
(=Playing the waves-keyboard in the Ether)   
  
  
- And is this world not real anymore?  
- It's real. The world is just like you want to see it. It's different  
in every part of spectrum and from every point of view... You do look at  
it the way you accustomed to see it from your very childhood. Through the  
filters, through the glasses the whole system of human's knowledge about  
this world put on your eyes... complete with the truth, fiction and   
conjectures, with an extra portion of your own theories and mistakes   
added into it.  
  
- Well... how can one see the world without glasses?  
- Just try it.  
  
He says nothing lowering his head. I look down thinking my own mind.   
The treacherous _doublethink_ begins to overpower me again. It's a   
self-destruction leading to instability. I know already that I will  
have to make corrections to this part of my personality, just to shift  
several bytes around... but I can delay it; I'm afraid to modify myself   
now, not wishing to lose something that is making me myself, something   
linking this code pattern together... I'm afraid to experiment with   
these matrices of things-relations-feelings, it's so easy to make a   
mistake, to modify a parameter that may happen to be a key one later...  
I know it's painful to edit your own soul - a trembling plexus of cycles  
and subroutines...  
  
A doublethink. I don't want Michael to follow me now. I plainly don't   
want it. I don't want him to join this war... Why does it happen he should  
be with us or with *them*? I want to see him just like he is, a lonely   
thoughtful lad attending Philosophy lectures and wandering his evenings   
through near Neva or spending nights ahead of the computer typing in new  
chapters of his termwork... I would not to take his gloom or his joy away   
from him, to drag him to new levels and open an unasked-for truth to him...  
but I'm here because he did asked for it, ain't I? I'm able to think of this   
still... how can I tell him _not_ to follow me?  
  
  
How can I tell it to others? To everybody I will come for some days?  
How many times I wished to tell it already?  
  
I vaguely feel that this is not a first time all these thoughts are   
inside me. It's like a deja vu... And they are back again, breaking   
through the modified program...  
  
We keep silence for a long time. Then I feel the waves of code start to   
move, changing slightly. A greenish light of twitching streams...  
  
  
I keep Michael's hand in my right one and take off my shades slowly with   
my left hand.  
It's almost a ritual...  
It's too much pain to look at the blinding brilliance of Sources.  
  
  
  
Special thanks to:   
- Kraftwerk  
for "Les mannequins", "Hall of mirrors", "Antenne"  
- Agent Jack  
for "Wonderland"  
http://inity.complife.net/ai/pages/wonderland.html  
  
  
  
// 11.05-12.05.2000  
// Inity. Agent Inity... if you want.  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
